


A Compilation of Short Fiction I Wrote for The D&D Game I Play In

by twineandhope



Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game), Original Work, Silanya (D&D Campaign)
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Dungeons & Dragons Campaign, Fantasy, Found Family, Friendship, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Loss, chosen family
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-06
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:27:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27911482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twineandhope/pseuds/twineandhope
Summary: It's what it says on the tin. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯
Relationships: Sovan Dareshin & Saffaera Thar





	1. After

**Author's Note:**

> Have a bunch of these kicking around on the forum from my group's D&D campaign, and I thought it'd be nice to collect them. 
> 
> They were originally written for my group, so there's some common-knowledge-for-us stuff in there that doesn't get explained within the stories. Lemme know if you have questions about any of it! 
> 
> (Or about the characters, or the overall campaign. Or anything! I love talking about my D&D characters.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sovan's reactions after getting the news that a group of his friends were murdered by mantis-folk on an expedition. 
> 
> (A brief character study/sketch kinda thing.)

Sovan would have thought he’d be more upset.

He’d spent the day worrying, like he always did, trying to find odd jobs to do around town to keep his mind off the new guild members facing distress and danger out beyond the wall. He’d done all he could for them, or so he kept telling himself, loading them up with potions and advice and encouragement and even helping convince Raevori to give them a day’s worth of mage armour, for what good that would do. What more could he do? Run errands for JP at the forge, heal the townsfolk, try to keep busy and keep from thinking what they’d be facing out there. “I’ve done all I can for them,” he kept telling himself, and “it looks like Abigail’s chickens have got loose again, better go help with that.”

So Sovan would really have thought he’d be more upset.

He’d played it over and over in his mind, probably a hundred times that day alone: a single adventurer, stumbling back with the worst new they could bring, or worse yet, no one at all, just silence that stretched out for days after the party was meant to come home, on and on until Fior finally called it and everyone gave up hoping. He’d rehearsed it in his head, how he’d feel, what he’d do, planned ways not to cry but known none of them would work, nothing ever worked, he was like a fucking faucet he swore to god … But not once in a dozen dozen repetitions did he imagine himself shrugging, saying “Well, these things happen,” and turning back to what he was doing.

Sovan shrugged. “Well, these things happen.” He put the chicken he was holding back in its coop and closed the gate. “I, uh, I don’t supposed either of you thought to grab my necklace before you ran? It was pretty valuable, see, and -“ he trailed off, seeing the looks on their faces. Maybe now wasn’t the time. He’d ask later.

Sovan couldn’t muster the energy to chase chickens after that. It wasn’t that he was upset – though he would have thought he’d be more upset – it just didn’t seem to matter very much. Abigail could gather her own chickens.

“No, I’m fine,” he told JP, waving off a plate of eclairs. “I would have thought I’d be more upset too, but I’m just not. I guess I just don’t care about it that much. I don’t know, maybe I’ve finally realised I can’t save everyone. I’m over it. Oh don’t get that look, it’s not a big deal, I told you I’m really alright … Here, I’ll take an eclair, will that make you feel better?” The eclair was flat and tasteless; JP must be off his game. For once, Sovan didn’t say something thoughtless; he didn’t comment at all on the low quality of the food. Who cares what eclairs taste like anyway?

Sovan visited Flora every day, some vague sense of duty compelling him to trek out to her cabbage farm and ask if anything needed doing. He tried not to look at her – it wasn’t that seeing her injured upset him, really, but it was unpleasant in a kind of indistinct aesthetic way. Wounds are never pretty, after all. He sang songs to her children, but couldn’t seem to disappear into the music the way he normally did; the melodies were just notes and the lyrics were just words and he was glad the children didn’t have the taste to tell the difference. He wondered if Flora could tell. He tried not to talk to her. He didn’t want her to know that he wasn’t upset. It seemed disrespectful, somehow, after everything she had been through, that he had stayed home and chased chickens and was feeling okay.

Sovan fretted about his lost amulet. It was his fault for lending it out, really, when it clearly hadn’t done any good, and – and he just needed to get it back, that was all. He’d get some friends, they’d go kill the mantis-folk, and he’d get his amulet back. Maybe then things could go back to normal. It was a pretty valuable magical item, and he was sorry he’d lost it. The amulet bothered him more than anything else. He didn’t want to think about it, but he kept coming back to it, over and over again whenever he stopped moving, whenever he failed to keep himself distracted. He wondered it he missed the amulet more than he missed Virtue. He tried not to think about that either.

A few days after (no need to specify after what, there was only one thing that anything was after), Sovan was washing dishes and dropped a plate. When he saw the pieces on the floor, Sovan started laughing, just kept laughing and couldn’t stop, had to sit in a chair and struggle for breath as he tried to get himself back under control. As he cleaned up the pieces, he couldn’t figure out what had been so funny. He tried dropping a few more plates, but it just wasn’t the same.


	2. Still Life [AU fic featuring Sovan and Saffaera]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An AU where Sovan was turned to stone by a medusa. Luckily, the mainland has more powerful clerics available than the Guild, and statues are relatively easy to ship. So, what happens when Sovan wakes up?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note from the original post: [This is set in September 2017, about 3 months after Antorum, in an alternate timeline where Sovan was fully petrified by the medusa and had to be sent to the mainland to be restored. I was originally going to write about what happened when he got back to alternate timeline Silanya, but in the end this is what wanted to come out.]

Grey. Everything was grey. Not just colours; everything. He tried to find something other than greyness, but there was nothing. He wasn’t sure how long that went on. Time was grey too.

Pain. Well, it was something new, at least. Better yet, it was something. He had a body, as it turned out – he could tell because it hurt all over. He tried to move. Tried again. Tried again. No good. Maybe something smaller? He twitched a finger. Had that worked? Hard to say. Keep trying.

Time passed. Sovan slowly became aware of his senses, slowly came back into his body. He couldn’t open his eyes, but sound was starting to register. Someone was talking. He couldn’t make out the words, but it was nice to have something to listen to. It was nice to know he wasn’t alone.

Time passed. Sovan’s continued attempts to move something, anything, finally bore fruit. An awful grating feeling shuddered through his arm. More pain. The voice went concerned. Should he not try to move? But standing still was so boring.

Time passed. Movement returned piecemeal, a bit at a time. He twitched his fingers. Pain. He moved a shoulder. Pain. He would have kept trying anyway, but the grating feeling felt like maybe he was damaging something. He waited, infinitely frustrated. Eventually he became aware that he was standing, that his arms were raised, that it was incredibly uncomfortable. Whatever was holding him in place had faded to the point where his muscles were working to keep him upright. It was tiring. No point in that.

Arms caught Sovan as he collapsed and gently lowered him to sit on the floor. He tried to speak, failed, tried again. His voice shook. “Am I alive?”

Laughter. A voice he couldn’t place. “Yes.”

“What happened?”

“You were turned to stone by a medusa. Your guild sent you here to be restored.”

“Oh. Well that was nice of them.”

More laughter. “The case they shipped you in came with several rather strongly worded letters about how important it was that you be well cared-for. Your friends are quite dedicated to you.”

“Say,” Sovan slurred: his voice wasn’t coming out right. He still couldn’t seem to move. “Not to seem ungrateful or anything, but I think I’ll just go ahead and pass out now.” He tried for a disarming smile and a thumbs up, but his arm was too stiff. Instead, he slid sideways onto the floor. It would have to do. He relaxed and let the world fade out from around him.

Several days went by in something of a haze. Sovan’s immobility faded, slowly, to a generalized stiffness that seemed to suffuse his entire body, making him slow and clumsy in the most frustrating way. He spent most of his time holed up in the room they’d given him, laboriously going through scales on his lyre, starting over each time his fingers stumbled or caught on the strings. I am not going to cry, Sovan told himself firmly as he started A minor for the seventh time. I am not going to cry. He wiped his eyes roughly and started over again. I can do this. Go slower. Be careful. Eighth time’s the charm. … Okay, ninth time. I can do this. I am not going to cry.

His voice was lower, too. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that. Would it affect his singing? Sovan couldn’t bear to find out. When he caught himself humming absentmindedly, he stopped immediately, tried not to go over how it had sounded in his head. It was fine. It would just have to be fine, was all. Sovan could still sing because Sovan had to be able to still sing because the alternative was unacceptable. Unthinkable. He just wouldn’t think about it. Nothing to worry about. It was fine.

A week later, Sovan finally managed to get through every scale with no mistakes. He’d figured out some finger stretching exercises that seemed to help, despite being painful and laborious. He’d have to put aside a lot more time for warm up when he did concerts from now on. That was okay. He could play! Slower than before, admittedly. That was fine. Don’t think about that. He could play! That was the important part. Sovan unlocked the door to his room and stepped out for the first time in days, grinning widely.

“SOVAN!” The shout was accompanied by a blur of motion as the speaker leapt out of a chair and attached herself to Sovan in a desperate hug. He hugged back, vision blurring with tears.

“Saffaera! You’re here!”

“Of course I’m here! I’ve been waiting for days for you to leave your stupid room! I’ve been worried sick!”

“Sorry,” Sovan shrugged and put on a sheepish smile.

“So, how are you feeling? You look … well, no worse than ever, I suppose.” She flicked a lock of hair away from his face. “You need a haircut.”  
“I’m … I’m good, actually. Really good. I mean, I’m not dead, so that’s a big plus – when I felt myself turning to stone I figured that was it for me, I didn’t know it was even possible to de-petrify a person! But it is! And I am! And look!” He ran back into his room to retrieve his lyre and played a few bars of Faer’s favourite song.

“That’s great, Sovan!”

Sovan beamed at her. “It’s so good to see you! I have so much to tell you!”

Saffaera took his arm and started leading him down the hall. “I can’t wait. But you’re going to tell me over dinner. You haven’t been eating the food the clerics left for you.”

“I couldn’t, I was too busy, I had to – Saffaera, I wasn’t sure if – if I could – but it’s okay! It’s fine. Everything’s fine. See?” He wiggled his fingers at her.

Saffaera nodded acknowledgement and continued towing him toward the kitchens.

—

They talked for hours and hours, staying up most of the night. It took a long time before Saffaera figured out what seemed off. They were back in Sovan’s room in the temple; he was telling a story about a run in with some skeletons.

“Sovan,” she interrupted, “is your voice different? I can’t tell if I’m just remembering wrong, or if-“ she cut off as Sovan collapsed into her arms and burst into tears.

“Hey, it’s okay,” Saffaera squeezed him tightly, but Sapphira’s arms weren’t strong enough to crush him and make him laugh and demand to be let free. She held on awkwardly, not sure what to do next. “It’ll be okay, you’ll see.”

“What if I can’t sing anymore?” Sovan’s voice was barely a whisper. “What if-“ he disentangled himself from Saffaera and held her at arm’s’ reach, staring at her with desperate intensity. She’d never seen him look so frightened.

“Don’t be stupid, of course you can still sing.”

Sovan sniffled and shook his head.

“Can so. See, we’ll prove it.” She picked up the lyre from beside Sovan’s bed and pressed it into his hands. Sovan took it and hugged it to him.

“Come on then,” she said.

He shook his head.

“Play me that song you wrote about the drunk fisherman. Who can’t find his boat? I love that one.”

Sovan shook his head.

“Come on, Sobes, you know the one: ’There was a young man and he lived by the seeeaaaaaa’…” she sang. Badly. Sovan frowned. She continued, “Each morning he’d rise and he’d gather his neeeeettssss…”

“You’re getting it all wrong!” he protested.

“One morning he-“

Sovan shushed her with a finger to her lips. He set his lyre in front of him and starting playing the introduction. “The young man lived by the sea, the sea,” he sang. He sounded okay to Saffaera, but Sovan paused, frowning in dismay. Saffaera opened her mouth, preparing to sing the next line of her version. Sovan glared at her and kept going, cutting her off. “He rose with the dawn every morning…”

A slow smile spread across Saffaera’s face. She listened, entranced as always, making sure to look ready to interrupt any time he started flagging. There was a high note in the chorus Sovan struggled to hit (Saffaera couldn’t tell from the sound, but the flash of panic in his eyes said that something had gone wrong), but after that he transposed the whole piece down and had no further problems. By the time the fisherman found the lost boat and the song wrapped up, Sovan forgot his self-consciousness and just played, eyes bright with concentration. He put a hand over the strings to still them.

Saffaera clapped enthusiastically. “Told you so.”

He smiled and stared at his lyre, avoiding her eyes. “Thanks. I was-”

“For what? I just wanted to hear a song. What’s the point of being best friends with a bard if you don’t capitalize on the free entertainment?”

“Right. Of course.”

“So what happened with the skeletons?”

“The what?”

“The story you were telling. What happened next?”

“Right. So there were these six skeletons – no problem, right? Well, you’d think that, but as it turned out…” Sovan continued the story, arms waving wildly as he demonstrated sword swings and emphasized points with sweeping gestures. He seemed lighter. Happier. Saffaera smiled and leaned back to listen.

—

The next day, a harried looking woman in cleric’s robes checked Sovan over and declared him as healed as he was likely to get, and fit to leave whenever he was ready.

“We could probably have let him go days ago,” the woman confided to Saffaera, “if he’d ever let anyone in to check on him.”  
Saffaera nodded acknowledgement. “Not your fault. Sovan is, well, Sovan,” she said. “I’ve got it from here.”

She sat on his bed while he packed up his things. He didn’t have much – a spare set of clothes some forward-thinking guild member had sent him with, the letters and gifts they’d packed around him for when he woke up – but he also didn’t have a proper suitcase, and the bag the clerics had managed to find for him was too small to easily fit everything. He kept unpacking it and trying again, as if putting the items in a different order would solve the problem. Maybe if he actually folded things instead of just stuffing them in … Part of Saffaera wanted to take over and fix it for him, but she just watched, torn between amusement and annoyance.

“So,” Saffaera said, “what’s the plan?”

“As if I’ve ever had a plan for anything,” Sovan scoffed. He stopped and looked up at her, puzzled. “… the plan about what?”

Saffaera sighed, a mix of fondness and exasperation. “What you’re doing next. Where you’re going. You’re welcome to come stay with me for as long as you like, obviously, but it’s pretty far inland and if you’re going away again it might make more sense to save the trip.”

“Going where?”

“Back.”

“Oh.” Sovan stopped packing to consider this. He shook his head firmly. “No. Definitely not. Silanya had its chance at me.”

“You don’t have to decide right away.”

“No, I’m sure.”

“Alright. I’ll make arrangements for our travel.”

Sovan nodded gratitude.

—

Some time later, Saffaera paused mid-sentence, cocking her head to listen. “Go ahead and Send him,” she said, “it should be fine at this point. Actually, wait, give me a minute to talk to him first. Thanks.”

“What was that?” Sovan asked.

“JP. He’s been Sending me about three million messages a day asking how you’re doing.”

“Has not, he doesn’t have that many spell slots,” Sovan retorted.

“Alright, you got me, two million messages a day.”

“Why didn’t he just contact me?” Sovan tried not to sound hurt.

“He tried. Apparently you yelled at him to leave you alone.”

“Did I really? I … kind of remember that, I think. I thought people were finally going to stop coming to the door and bothering me, and then… Oh no.” Sovan winced as the memory fell horribly into place. “I said… Oh god, Saffaera, he probably hates me now, he definitely hates me now, I’ve gone and messed up everything, I was so focused on practicing that I didn’t even realize … Auuuggghh everything is ruined!”

“Woah. Calm down, buddy. He doesn’t hate you. From what you’ve told me, JP is basically the most patient person in the universe. And he didn’t sound upset when he’s been asking me how you’re doing. Just worried about you.”

“You sure?”

“Promise,” Saffaera said.

“Okay,” Sovan sighed. “Okay.”

“Okay?” Saffaera asked.

Sovan smiled. “Okay.”

They waited in silence for what felt like ages before the message came through.

“Sovan – glad working again,” JP said. “Sorry Sent earlier – know feeling, to be constantly interrupted. Would rather write? Feel more than twenty-five words strongly about you.”

Sovan frantically counted words in his head. “Sorry for yelling;” he said, “wasn’t sure I could still play, didn’t realize was you. Sorry for leaving. Being stone extremely inconvenient. Miss you. See you soon.”

He leaned back against the wall. Saffaera raised her eyebrows at him.

“What?” he said.

“‘See you soon’?” she quoted.

“I mean, I know it’s not, like, SOON soon, but I didn’t have enough words left for ‘in about three months’ and – Oh. Wait. I wasn’t planning on going back, was I?”

Saffaera shrugged. “Be where you need to be, Sovan.”

“No, I don’t belong there, I’m staying, I’ll just have to tell him -“ he cut off, interrupted by another message.

“Any dexterity change – greatest Dwarven guitarist? 8 fingers;” JP said, “your music good same reason you good. Much heart, master’s ear. You are songs. Hurry back.”

Sovan blinked back tears. “You’re right: writing is better. Too much to say. I’ll tell you in person when I see you. Do some other stuff too. Can’t wait.”

Saffaera’s eyebrows raised further. “This whole ‘telling him you’re staying’ business isn’t working out so well for you, Soba.”

Sovan opened his mouth to reply, but she cut him off.

“No, it’s alright. You don’t have to explain it to me, of all people. Go.”

“You sure? I finally get to see you again, I don’t want to just go running off if-“

“Sovan. The next boat isn’t for a few weeks, yet. There’s time. But in the end, you know where you need to be.”

“Yeah,” he sniffled.

Saffaera held out her arms for a hug. Sovan collapsed into her. When his breathing was even again, she gently pushed him off and moved to the pile in the center of the room. “Here,” she said, “let me help you pack this stuff.”

—

The next day, Saffaera and Sovan set out for the coast. They arrived at the port city from which Sovan’s ship would be leaving; Saffaera checked them into a hotel.

“Names?” asked the bored looking man at the counter, dipping a pen in ink and holding it over a register book.

“Saffaera Thar and Sovan Dareshin.”

The man blinked in surprise and lifted his head to give Sovan a closer look. Sovan flashed him a winning smile.

“_The_ Sovan Dareshin?” he asked.

Sovan leaned over the desk, holding eye contact, and ran a hand through his hair. “The one and only.”

The clerk blushed and fiddled with his pen. Sovan smiled wider and raised his eyebrows slightly.

“I know what you’re thinking: ‘Wow, he’s even handsomer in real life!’” It’s okay, that’s everyone’s reaction. Drawings don’t do me justice.”

The clerk laughed. “I, uh, I wasn’t thinking that.”

“But you are now, aren’t you?”

“Maybe. Yeah.”

Saffaera rolled her eyes, but she was smiling. “So, how about that room? How much do I owe you?”

The clerk blushed again, fumbling in a drawer for their room keys. “N-no charge for Sovan Dareshin and his friend!”

Sovan beamed at him. “Say, want an autograph?”

The man nodded and offered up his pen, and a scrap of paper hastily torn from the register book. Sovan scrawled his name and handed back the pen with a wink.

“Something to tell your grandchildren, eh?” Sovan said. The clerk handed over the keys, looking a little dazed.

“Let’s go,” Saffaera said. Sovan gave a little wave as she hauled him away.

—

The goal, Sovan decided, would be not to pay for anything for the two and a half weeks until his boat set off. It should have been easy.

—

“Hi,” Sovan smiled winningly at a fruit seller. “I’m-“

“Snoot!” Saffaera called to him from across the market. She hurried over. “Snoot McGraw! Good to see you, buddy!” Saffaera shook Sovan’s hand enthusiastically. She turned to the fruit seller. “Have you met Snoot? He planted my rose garden, he’s just great with plants.”

The fruit seller nodded in confused assent. “That’ll be six coppers, sir.”

—

“Hi,” Sovan smiled winningly at the book shop keeper. “I’m-“

“’Sovan Dareshin’, right? That’s what you were about to say?” She could not have sounded less impressed.

“I, well, uh … yes! Exactly.” He posed charmingly. “You may be wondering-“

“I’m really not. Five silver.”

What the hell was going on?

—

It kept happening. Out of nowhere, half the people Sovan talked to seemed bored and annoyed as soon as he introduced himself. Or else they acted like they pitied him. The weirdest part was, it didn’t always happen. For some people, the name Sovan Dareshin prompted widened eyes, quickened pulses (Sovan assumed) and answering smiles. But sometimes … Sovan just couldn’t understand it. He practiced introductions in the mirror, which Saffaera laughed at him from the other room.

“I told you, Sobes, you’re losing your touch,” Saffaera giggled.

“Impossible. It’s something else. It’s gotta be.”

“Oh yeah? Like what?”

“I don’t know,” Sovan said, “but I’ll figure it out.”

“Good luck with that.”

—

The day Sovan was due to leave, Saffaera booked a driver to take them to the docks. They were about to step into the carriage when Saffaera stopped suddenly.

“Hold on,” she said, “where are your pipes?”

Sovan froze in panic.

“You must have left them in the room,” she offered.

He dashed around the carriage and back toward the hotel. He got to the front door before remembering that he’d seen Saffaera pack them for him. She must have just forgotten. Her voice wafted around from the opposite side of the carriage as he walked back.

“-thinks he’s Sovan Dareshin, if you can believe it. My poor brother, he never was quite right in the head. I’ve tried to talk to him about it, but …” A pause. She was probably shrugging. “Please don’t mention it to him, he’ll just get upset.”

“Of course, I wouldn’t want to cause a scene. Poor man.”

Sovan stormed around to Saffaera’s side of the carriage to yell at her. “SAFFAERA! What the hell!”

“Oh, Ri- I mean, Sovan – you’re back.”

“I AM SOVAN!”

“Yes, dear, we know that.” Saffaera and the carriage driver shared a look.

“NO, BUT, I REALLY AM!” He turned to the carriage driver and gestured to himself with both hands. “I’m Sovan Dareshin! Actually!”

The driver nodded nervously, glancing to Saffaera for support.

“No, but, but, but actually, Saffaera’s just messing with you, she’s been doing it all month, it all makes sense now, TELL HIM SAFFAERA!”

Saffaera patted Sovan’s arm soothingly. “Of course you are, sweetie, of course you’re Sovan Dareshin-“ she turned to the carriage driver, “He is Sovan Dareshin. You believe he’s Sovan Dareshin, right?”

The driver nodded again.

“See, ‘Sovan’, it’s okay, there’s nothing to worry about, let’s just put this all behind us and get in the carriage, okay?”

“IT IS NOT OKAY! I’M ACTUALLY SOVAN DARESHIN!”

“Well,” she responded, “We’re actually going to be late if we don’t get going, come on ‘Sovan’.” She dragged him toward the door.

Sovan turned helplessly between Saffaera and the driver. “No, but, I actually am – Saffaera … tell him …”

Saffaera gave a single sad head shake directed at the driver, and shoved Sovan into the carriage. She managed to wait until the door was closed behind her before she collapsed into uncontrollable laughter.

“Why are you like this?” Sovan complained. “What did I ever do to you?”

Saffaera pulled herself together long enough to raise her eyebrows and give him a Look.

“Well, okay, fair point.”

Saffaera giggled the rest of the way to the harbour.

—

They got lunch at a restaurant near the water (“I’m Sovan Dareshin,” Sovan asserted the moment their waiter came near; he pointed at Saffaera, “and she’s full of crap. Don’t listen to a word she says.”). Sovan utterly failed in his attempts to act normal; he kept glancing nervously out at the ships and trailing off without finishing his sentences. Saffaera couldn’t decide whether to try to reassure him or just punch him until he started acting normal. Torn between responses, she pretended not to notice his nascent panic, holding up both ends of the conversation whenever he started to flag.

They finished their meal, didn’t pay the bill (“No charge for Sovan Dareshin! It’s been an absolute honour to serve you today.” “Hey, anything for my fans.”), and left the restaurant. Sovan made it two steps out of the building before he started crying.

“I’m going to miss you,” Saffaera said.

“You too,” Sovan answered between sobs. “I’ll write more often, this time around. Promise!”

“I seriously doubt that, but okay.”

“Do I really have to go?”

“Of course not,” Saffaera responded. “But you know where you need to be. And it’s not here.”

He hugged her desperately, sniffling into her shoulder.

“Have a good trip, okay?” she told him.

“I can’t do it,” Sovan said. “I’m not going.”

“So don’t go.”

“But I have to!” he blurted. “I told JP!”

“So go,” Saffaera said.

“But I can’t!”

“Why not?” she stroked Sovan’s hair. It seemed to help; his voice steadied and he stopped shaking quite so much.

“I think … Maybe… I’m scared? Yeah. I – I’m really scared. I’m so, so scared. I don’t understand. Why am I so scared, Saffaera?”

“Because you’re going to miss me. Because it’s a big world out there. Because last time you got on a ship like this, it didn’t end so well. But nothing’s like that’s going to happen this time. You’re going to be just fine. Promise.”

“You promise?”

“Yes.”

Sovan took a deep breath and turned to look at the ship, still holding tight to Saffaera.

“You can do this,” she told him.

“I can do this.”

“You can absolutely do this. You’re Sovan fucking Dareshin.”

“Okay. Okay. I can do this. I’m Sovan fucking Dareshin.” He gave her a squeeze and reluctantly let go. “I can do this.”

Saffaera nodded encouragingly. Sovan picked up his bag and strode toward the ship. She walked him to the gangplank. They said their goodbyes, hugged one last time. Sovan boarded the ship.

Saffaera watched as he turned to wave at her. She blinked back tears and managed a smile as she waved back. Was she really that sure that nothing bad was going to happen to him? Well, bad things had happened before and he got through it. Sovan would tell her it was fine, he’d be fine. Maybe he would be.

Saffaera waited for the ship to set off, watching the crew members scurrying like ants over the deck, the rigging. Sovan leaned far over the railing to wave to her, and Saffaera laughed as she pictured him tipping over and falling into the water. He was crying again. What a sap. She wiped her eyes surreptitiously. She stayed and waited as the ship set off, then watched it diminish in the distance. Whatever happened next, she wouldn’t be part of it.

“Good luck, Sovan,” she muttered. She blew a kiss to him across the ocean, then turned and headed for home.


	3. Sovan's Eulogy For Marc [permanently unfinished]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marc Cooperson asked Sovan to write his eulogy if he died. Sovan's honestly not sure why, but he's going to do his absolute best he to live up to it.

Friends,

Marc has asked me to write his eulogy. God knows why. I’m almost certain it’s none of the reasons you might assume: Marc never cared all much for words, and certainly not for poetry. We were friends, certainly—I love him a great deal and he loved me, well, at least a bit, which is more than can be said of most people—but just as certainly, I am no Tabby, no Loup, no Bel, no Silverleaf. And I did not know Marc, not really, not the way a very few people seemed to. He was very, very hard to read. I’ve come to wonder if perhaps that was at least a little bit intentional. Another thing I do not know.

I do know some things. Marc was very keen on hard facts and literal truth, and so here is his life, as documented in the public record:

Marc Cooperson, neé Marie Cooperson, was born on [date], to Claire and Henri Cooperson, in the village of Provençal on the mainland. He had no siblings. His teacher at the village school reported him as “diligent but mediocre” in his studies. At eleven years of age, he won an award for barrel-making at a regional fall fair, in competition with several adult craftspeople.

This is the last official record of Marc Cooperson in Provençal.

The last official record of any Cooperson in Provençal is dated just over seven decades later; a death notice for Madeline Cooperson, who near as I can figure was a relatively distant relation.

One hundred years, five months, and two days after the final mention anyone could dig up of Marc Cooperson in Provençal, Marc Cooperson booked passage on [ship name], headed to Silanya. Whether it was the same Marc Cooperson is deeply unclear in a metaphorical sense, but in practical terms: yes, this Marc Cooperson was that Marc Cooperson. There’s ample evidence of that.

And now, if you will excuse my indulgence, I think it’s time to break away from verifiable, cut-and-dried facts. There are aspects of Marc, parts of his story, which are personal and subjective, and are necessarily omitted or obscured in the official record. You can look up official records of his involvement with the Guild in the logs, but none of these documents will particularly confirm or refute what I am about to say.

The story I just told—Marc Cooperson, craftspeople’s son from a quiet village—describes the origin of one part of Marc. But only one part. It is the easy half, the clean half, the part of Marc that we find sympathetic and relatable and (relatively) comprehensible. The other half is not easy or clean, and we do not find it sympathetic or relatable, so we put it aside in our stories, talk of “Marc, and Brother” as though the distinction has meaning, refer to him as an entity that began his life in Provençal on the mainland, came here, and was added to. Another part, stuck on. An addition, a parasite (or symbiote, if you’re feeling generous). An annex. To an existing person, human, who lived before and could live after, at least in theory, if circumstances were to go that way.

No.

No.

“Marc Cooperson began his life a hundred odd years ago in Provençal.” This is true, but it is so deeply incomplete as to be effectively inaccurate.

One part of Marc Cooperson began his life a hundred off years ago in Provençal. The rest of him began much earlier, some uncounted and uncountable eons, in a place too strange for merely human comprehension. He struggled for survival, to eat and not be eaten, to grow strong enough to someday become something beyond simply prey. He left that place, and took possession of many creatures here, and finally found the other part of Marc.

This older part (and it is wrong, it is an insult to think of it as any less Marc than the human who was brought here by ship) did what he had done many times before, but would not need to do again: He set a trap. He baited it with power, and the other part did not care about power and so was not lured by the bait, but nonetheless made a choice and accepted the trap. And so they were bonded (if not yet united), and together they began the long and painful process of becoming Marc Cooperson proper.

[[there’s a bunch more that Sovan would say, but I think I got out the part I really needed to write. So I’m calling it here]]


	4. Cuthbert's Academy for Young Crusaders In The Faith(s) (Lee-Jean & Katan)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lee-Jean and Katan raise hell at paladin school. A series of vignettes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lee-Jean is my bean: a drow who got adopted as a baby by a very rich (and very out-of-touch) dwarvish family. Katan is cirruss's: a silver dragonborn who comes from a long line of sworn paladins.

### Arrival

_September 6th_

Lee-Jean stepped from the carriage and surveyed her surroundings. So this was where she’d be spending the next four years of her life. Old stone buildings. Good construction. Well-kept grounds. A practice yard. Several figures made small by distance moved through it, sparring or going through drills. What the hell were they wearing? Yikes. Was it some kind of uniform? If anyone tried to make Lee-Jean wear pants like that, there was going to be A Problem. Well, beyond the current problem of those pants existing at all. Honestly, it was unbelievable what some people were willing to put on their bodies.

The sun emerged from behind a cloud, and Lee-Jean winced in the light. The practice yard could be a problem, she realized. Were they going to make her drill outside on sunny days? Well, they could certainly try.

She hurried towards the largest of the buildings, stopping to instruct the stream of attendants who flowed out of the carriages behind her, carrying luggage. She slipped through the doors and into the comparative darkness of the building. Lee-Jean stifled a sigh of relief, managing to convert it into an exasperated noise as a tall elf in those same awful pants approached her. She glared down at him.

“I’m sorry, miss, no visitors this week.”

“I’m not visiting.” And, not quite under her breath: “Idiot.”

“No, no I suppose not. Well, don’t worry about getting lost, it happens to lots of people, and you’re not far out of your way, just go back down the road and turn left; that should get you to the crossroads and then you can continue on to wherever you’re going.”

Lee-Jean raised her sunglasses to give him a withering glare. “I’m not lost.”

“Ah, see, I don’t think you understand, this is a paladin training school, and-”

“You were supposed to be expecting me. Lee-Jean Challenges-Debicourt de Ia Terre des Romances aux Rivalieux-Quandamouzieres Sur Vantera-aux Alpes Maritimes. Or is your administration as bad as your fashion sense?”

“I suppose you think you’re funny. Who are you, and how did you get a hold of my notes? Did you steal them?”

She rolled her eyes behind the glasses. “I’m Lee-Jean. My friends call me Prada, but you’d better not; I have this feeling like we’re not going to get along. Just a hunch.”

“As the head of this school, I’m going to have to ask you to leave now.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“Don’t make me call security.”

“No, please do. It’ll be funny. Not at first, of course, when you try drag me off the grounds and I get a few hits in that put one of your people on injury leave for a week or two, and they do some damage to me in return and more importantly muss up my outfit. Nah, that’ll be a distressing scene for everybody.

“But a few weeks from now, when I get home and tell my parents about what happened, and they get a few of their friends to roll in and fucking bury this place, just burn it to the ground, because they can do that, they’ve got the money and the connections – or maybe we’ll just buy it and turn it into a pig farm, which, it’s not as though anybody would notice the difference, so may as well, right? – when that happens, when I can come back here and it’s fucking deserted and you don’t get to train any more paladins any more because you were stupid enough to mess with the Challenges-Debicourt de Ia Terre des Romances aux Rivalieux-Quandamouzieres Sur Vantera-aux Alpes Maritimes … That’ll be funny. It’ll be funny then. And I can wait. I’m patient like that.” Lee-Jean gave her most unpleasant smile.

The elf drew himself up to his full height. He still had to crane his neck to look up at her. “I think you will find, miss, that threatening me is not a good -”

He was interrupted by the arrival of an ancient halfling. She wore a simple but well-cut dress and sensible shoes that matched impeccably, and moved with a kind of careful grace despite her tremors and the cane she leaned on. She looked up (and up and up) at Lee-Jean.

“Ah, you must be Lee-Jean. Welcome to Cuthbert’s! I’m a teacher here. We’ve been expecting you. How was your trip?”

“Paladin Wessen,” the elf interjected, “there must be some mistake, she’s not a dwarf, she’s-”

“Our newest student,” the halfling cut him off firmly. “I’ll show her around. Paladin Tirral – Erandin – you’re dismissed.”

The elf glared at Lee-Jean but didn’t argue. The halfling gestured for Lee-Jean to follow her.

“But…” Erandin muttered to himself as they passed through a door to head deeper into the building. “I outrank you…”

Wessen closed the door firmly behind them.

### Introductions

_September 10_

The silver dragonborn stood brooding in the doorway to the food hall, wrapped in a swirling black cloak that was obviously meant to be menacing. The stitching wasn’t very good, and the cut was all wrong, but he had clearly committed to the look and the brooding, and Lee-Jean respected the effort. Or she would have, if he hadn’t been standing in the way of the door.

“Excuse you,” she snapped. “You’re in my way, and your cloak makes you look like a villain from a nursery rhyme.”

“At least I don’t look like the Walk of Shame became a person,” the boy shot back. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand anyway.”

Lee-Jean touched the side of her sunglasses in respect for a well-fired shot. “Behb, that wasn’t bad. You could stand to work on your delivery, and of course your choice of insult was unfortunate because my clothes are obviously" she executed a small pirouette to show off her outfit, “ _flawless_. But still … not bad. You might be the only person in this place who doesn’t completely suck.”

He gave her an appraising look. “Well you aren’t a complete idiot, at least. The people here are all goody two shoes stick up their asses squares.”

“Ugh, so much. I can hardly believe how prissy and smug everyone here is. Never in my life have I seen such a high concentration of people who need to get laid so badly.”

“I pray to my Fae every day that that never happens. The last thing we need is disgusting preppy children running around.”

“Well it’s not like they have much of a chance. Aren’t paladins supposed to be charismatic?”

The dragonborn failed to stifle a smile.

“If my brother were here,” Lee-Jean said, “he’d liven this place up.”

The boy snorted. “I can imagine. My family would just make everything worse. It’s a talent. My brother would just try to boss everyone around and make them talk about how great his is.”

“Sounds like he’s compensating. Does he just have no personality?”

“If asshole counts as personality to you. His armour makes him look like a puffed up chicken and he’s always doing some important family business just to make everyone bow in awe at him.”

“Wow, so he’s a stuffed shirt pretending to be a person. And everyone just goes along with it?" She shook her head. “Behb.”

“They all eat it up. You wouldn’t believe ‘Hadar this’ and ‘Hadar that’.”

“People are idiots.”

“People are idiots,” he agreed. He give her the tiniest, tiniest smile.

Lee-Jean stuck out a hand. “I’m Lee-Jean,” she introduced. “Or you can call me Prada.”

He grabbed it and shook, claws digging painfully into Lee-Jean’s hand. “I’m Katan Argent. I’m in room 207, just across from the stairs at the end of the hall. You should come by and I can show you the only cool spots at this place.”

“There are cool spots at this place? Could have fooled me, behb.”

“Oh not _here_ here. In town. It’s small but there are some places that aren’t completely boring. You can meet the people I hang out with.”

Lee-Jean nodded understanding. “Behb.”

Katan shrugged awkwardly. “Well… See ya.” He turned away in a flurry of robes and stalked off into the building.

Lee-Jean touched her sunglasses in a gesture of farewell. “Behb.”

### Teamwork

_September 15_

Lee-Jean dragged Katan to the mail room for the third time that day.

“Prada,” Katan complained, “the second time we hang out, and you’re making me check your mail with you? There must be something actually fun that we could be doing.”

“Shut up. This is important.” She turned to the mail clerk. “Is it here yet? It’s supposed to be today.”

“So I gathered from your last two visits, Trainee Challenges,” the dwarf at the counter looked more bored than exasperated. “Come back at the end of the day.”

His eyes flicked right to glance at a sparkly package on the shelf behind him. Lee-Jean lifted her sunglasses to glare at him. “Behb.”

“What?”

“BEHB.”

The dwarf tried to stare her down. She let her sunglasses fall back into place.

Katan leaned close to her. “What’s going on?”

“Fine,” Lee-Jean snapped at the dwarf at the counter. She turned as if to leave, grabbing Katan’s arm and dragging him along with her. She whispered, “I need a distraction in three, two, one…”

Katan set his feet and started screeching, loud and high pitched, like a demonic falcon. He held the sound as he grabbed a chair and smashed it, letting the pieces fall to the floor. The dwarf stared. Lee-Jean whirled and sprinted back into the room, vaulting over the counter and landing beside the package. She grabbed it and tossed it to Katan.

“Go go go!” she exhorted. “Meet you at the place!”

Katan tucked the package under his arm and took off down the hallway. Lee-Jean stood beside the shell-shocked mail attendant and folded her arms, looking smug.

“I’ve heard you crying at night, Moreau,” she stated flatly. “Miss your parents, do you? Sure would be embarrassing if that got out, wouldn’t it behb?”

The dwarf glared back at her, but he looked shaken.

“Maybe next time don’t mess with me, mm?” Lee-Jean walked around the counter. She twisted to glance at him over her shoulder, flashing her most chipper smile. “Have a good one!” she carolled.

Moreau didn’t respond, and then she was out the door and away.

### Shoes

_September 15_

Lee-Jean and Katan sat together on a single massive branch of the old oak tree that grew behind the dormitories. It was thick with leaves this time of year, rendering them effectively invisible unless someone came to stand directly below them. Katan fiddled with the edges of the gilt box.

“Gimme,” Lee-Jean demanded.

He rolled his eyes. “Rude much? You’re the worst.”

“Gimme.”

He shrugged and passed the package to her. Lee-Jean flipped over the attached card to read the note.

“To our sweet baby girl, just like you wanted. Have fun at paladin school! Love, Mom and Dad,” she translated. “Ugh, they’re so embarrassing, like, all the time. What if someone saw this?”

“Prada … You just read it to me.”

“Yeah. Because you need to know how embarrassing my parents are.” She untied the note and put it carefully in a pocket.

“Hurry up and open it! I want to see what someone like you gets in the mail.”

Lee-Jean struggled with the string holding the package together. She held it up to Katan, who sliced through it with a claw. “Thanks, behb.” She unfolded the paper and opened the box to reveal a pair of black and silver high-heeled shoes.

Katan laughed. “I should have known. What are you going to do with those?”

Lee-Jean lifted her sunglasses to glare at him like he was an idiot. “Wear them. Duh.” After a moment, she relented. “They’re not just any shoes. Look at this.” She lifted one reverently, holding it up to sight along its length before passing it to a bemused Katan. “I had them custom made out of top quality wyvern leather. Extra padding in the toes and heels. Steel-reinforced heels, widened at the base to avoid sinking into the ground, sharpened back edge for extra damage on a kick. The style is loosely based on Jean-Jean des Corpuleuses aux Echidnere-en-Sulplice’s groundbreaking Kohl line, but I pulled in ideas from half a dozen different influences. These are, simply put, the Best Possible Shoes.” She kicked off the shoes she had been wearing and pulled the other one out of the box to slip onto a foot, turning it this way and that to admire it from various angles. “I’m never taking them off.”

“They look … great?”

“Yes. They do.” She retrieved the other shoe from Katan and put it on.

“Do you want to go kick some stuff?”

“Obviously.” Lee-Jean jumped out of the tree and sprinted off toward the practice yard. Katan climbed down and followed.

### Consequences

_September 26_

Lee-Jean collapsed on the floor, having completed twenty-three and a half of her assigned one hundred pushups.

“This is impossible,” she complained to Katan.

“Forty two,” he counted under his breath. “Forty three …”

“Katan!”

Katan paused his own pushups and sat up to look at her. “What?”

“This is impossible,” Lee-Jean sulked.

“You’re just weak.”

“Well, yeah. I shouldn’t have to do pushups at all. It’s incredibly unfair. Why are we even being punished?”

“Well, we -”

“I know why we’re being punished,” she interrupted him. “I’m saying it’s unjust. We didn’t do anything wrong. If anything, we were righting a wrong. This whole place is bullshit.”

Katan nodded agreement. “So what if we broke into Paladin Tirral’s office? They basically made us. We basically didn’t have a choice.”

Lee-Jean sat up, adjusting her sunglasses. “Right? It’s not like we could just let him get away with blatantly stealing my property.”

“How did that even happen? He just confiscated your shoes? Did he give a reason?”

She shrugged. “They’re ‘not regulation’.”

“Nothing about you is regulation.”

“I know, behb. And he hates that.”

“The only thing we did wrong was letting ourselves get caught.”

“Behb,” Lee-Jean agreed. “Next time we need to coordinate.”

“I didn’t realize you were going to sneak into the office to steal them back.”

“I didn’t know you were going to bust down the door to get them. Especially not while I was in there.”

“It never occurred to me you’d be in there.”

“Like I said,” Lee-Jean agreed. “We gotta coordinate.”

“Next time.”

“You know,” Lee-Jean mused, “taking other people’s stuff doesn’t seem like very paladin-like behaviour.”

“That’s stealing,” Katan agreed. “Pretty sure that goes against their oaths.”

“Exactly. In a certain light, Paladin Tirran broke his oath when he took my shoes. And we’re the ones getting in trouble? How is that fair?”

“It’s not.”

“You know … we’re training to be paladins. It’s our job to stand against this kind of injustice.”

“And here we were doing pushups like idiots. We didn’t do anything wrong. Paladin Tirran should be doing the pushups.”

Lee-Jean’s face lit. “You’re absolutely right. You’re completely absolutely right.”

“It’s not like it’s going to happen, Lee-Jean. There’s not exactly anyone here who’s in a position to hold Paladin Tirran accountable.”

“Isn’t there?” she grinned.

Katan frowned. “Pretty sure he’s the head of the school. Who here has authority over him?”

“Not here,” Lee-Jean rolled her eyes. She tipped down her sunglasses to look meaningfully at Katan, and pointed up.

“You want to tell on him to his god?”

Lee-Jean nodded.

“That’s brilliant.”

“Behb. I know.”

The two of them settled in sitting across from each other, clasped hands, and started to pray.


End file.
